Five years after the Falcones took me back into the bloodline they'd cast off, the woman they called their heiress, Vittoria Falcone, ran me down in the courtyard of the estate and shattered my leg beneath her tires.

My father and mother, and the man I'd loved since childhood, Lorenzo Bianchi, rushed me to the Family physician in a panic. When Dr. Russo bowed his head and declared, in that grave, careful voice of his, that I might never walk again, Lorenzo dropped to one knee without hesitation and swore before them all to keep me safe for the rest of my life.

My parents told me they had cut Vittoria loose, that they'd taken the evidence into their own hands, that the vendetta would be answered and justice done. With that, they said, I could rest. I could give myself to healing.

Later they told me Vittoria had drowned, gone to the mattresses in her guilt and never come back. And I believed them.

It wasn't until the fifth year of my blood-union that I saw her again. The woman who was supposed to be dead.

She had a little boy cradled in her arms, and her voice was soft, brimming over with feeling as she spoke to Lorenzo.

"These past years, I've been so grateful to you, and to Mamma and Papà. Without you, I'd have ended up laundered under some false name in a run-down front overseas, cast aside like Adriana."

"That cripple never would have imagined, even in death, that you and I have a son. That Mamma and Papà were in on it all along, wiping away the evidence, switching out her medicine for worthless nothing."

"Don't say that," he murmured. He smoothed one flat palm down the front of his jacket, top to bottom, as if brushing off something he could feel clinging to him. "The blood-union was the only way I could keep issuing those Family pardons. The only way to keep the vendetta off you. The only way to keep you safe."

"As long as you and our son are happy, none of it matters."

So that was the truth.

The marriage I had clung to like salvation had been nothing but a cruel illusion. My own blood had betrayed me and thrown me away, all to bury a lie.

Fine.

If I was nothing to them, then I would walk away.

……

I sat in silence in the wide marble foyer of the clinic, watching Vittoria hold her son. Lorenzo stood beside her, and around them the Family beamed, radiant with a joy that had never once been meant for me.

It felt as if someone had hollowed out my chest and left nothing behind but a raw, gaping wound. The pain was suffocating. I could barely breathe.

The husband who had vowed before witnesses to stand at my side, to cherish me, had loved the very woman who had nearly ended my life.

And my parents, after erasing the evidence, still refused to believe me. They had bound Lorenzo to me in blood-union, not out of love, but to keep his hand free to sign those pardons, to keep Vittoria clear of every debt she owed under the vendetta.

My phone rang.

It was my mother.

"Adriana, why didn't you wait so we could go together? We're on our way. Where are you?"

Hearing the urgency in her voice, fury surged through me and burned away the last of my restraint.

I curled my fingers into fists, nails digging deep into my palms. My thumb found the inside of my wrist, the old spot where the line had once fed into me, and I pressed until it hurt.

"Oh, I just thought I shouldn't be a burden to you for the rest of my life," I said, my voice light, almost mocking. "So this time, I decided to come for the treatments alone."

"We're famiglia! How could you ever be a burden to us? Have you reached the clinic yet? We're close. We'll be there right away."

Famiglia.

Before, every time I came for the treatments, my parents had always been at my side.

I had once mistaken it for love. For care. Now the truth lay bare in front of me, plain as a body in the road.

"Mm. I just arrived. I'm about to go into the lobby."

I turned my chair around the corner and stopped there, deliberately, letting the silence stretch.

As I knew they would, their voices went sharp with panic down the line. Don't go inside, they said. It's too crowded, too unsafe. Wait. We're close, we'll come to you, wait for us.

A cold smile pulled at my lips.

I answered them with nothing at all and ended the call.

Just then I saw Lorenzo lift his own phone to his ear. His face tightened in an instant. He leaned in and murmured something to Vittoria, handed the boy into her arms, and slipped out through the back the way a made man leaves a room he doesn't want to be seen leaving.

Vittoria melted into the crowd after him.

Understanding struck like a blade between my ribs.

The call had come from my parents.

They hadn't stopped me out of concern for my safety.

They were afraid I'd see Lorenzo and Vittoria standing together.

A wave of shock and sorrow crashed over me and threatened to drag me under. My whole life, every word, every soft gesture, had been nothing but a carefully arranged lie.

And all of it was for Vittoria.

The one who had done this to me. The one who had taken everything.

I curled my fingers, nails biting deep into my palm. Then, slowly, the pressure at my wrist eased. My hand went flat and calm against the armrest.

Since they had gone to such lengths to deceive me, I would return the favor in full.

I drew out my phone, pressed record, and guided my chair toward the entrance just as my parents came hurrying in.

Donna Falcone's eyes flickered with unease.

"Adriana, why didn't you wait for us before going in?"

Don Falcone's frown deepened beside her, one hand resting where his jacket hid the weight beneath it. "Didn't we tell you the clinic is crowded, full of the wrong sort of people? We can't let you go in alone. It isn't safe."

I met their worried gazes with calm indifference.

"I couldn't wait any longer, so I went inside to use the restroom," I replied evenly, my face betraying nothing.

Donna Falcone hesitated before asking, "You didn't see anyone, did you?"

The flicker of panic in her expression cut through me like a blade. I wanted to scream, to demand answers; why did you lie to me?

But I already knew the truth. Asking wouldn't change anything.

I had already decided to leave.

"See anyone? I was in a hurry and spent a while in the restroom. I wasn't paying attention."

Don Falcone exhaled, his thumb finding the worn silver medallion in his pocket, rolling it slow. "Let's go. We'll take you upstairs."

He took hold of my wheelchair while Donna Falcone crouched down, adjusting my mask with delicate care, the crucifix at her throat catching the light.

"The sickness is spreading through the ward. You need to protect yourself. If you fall ill, it'll break my heart." Her fingers brushed the cross at her neck, quick, as if asking pardon for the words even as she said them.

Once, the concern in her eyes would have moved me to tears.

But now, I couldn't feel even a trace of warmth in her gaze.

When we reached the private ward the Family kept on the twelfth floor, I lay on the bed as Dr. Russo pressed the anesthesia through the line. Drowsiness pulled me under, but just before I slipped into unconsciousness, their voices drifted through the haze.

"Miss Falcone's leg has gone untreated far too long. If she doesn't have the surgery soon, she may never stand again."

"Every course of rehabilitation was done halfway, and the medication swapped for nothing but vitamins, per your orders. Don Falcone, are you truly willing to watch your own blood remain crippled for life, so young?"

"I didn't pay a fortune to launder you back into this country just to hear your conscience. Do as I say."

The Don's words held no room for argument.

"So what if she never walks again? The Family will keep her for the rest of her days. Why should an outsider like you concern yourself with it?"

"Don't forget who has fed your envelope these five years. Do you truly believe you answer to this clinic, and not to me?"

Dr. Russo hesitated, and I heard the faint sound of glass against fabric, his lenses being wiped clean. "That isn't what I meant. It's only that Adriana has been under anesthesia for years now. If this continues, her body may learn to resist it. What do we do then?"

"That's your problem to solve. Just see to it her legs neither heal nor rot. Keep it controlled."

A beat of hesitation. Then, Dr. Russo's reluctant answer.

"Understood."

The door eased open and their footsteps faded down the corridor, swallowed by the silence a Don leaves behind him.

I lay there as if I had plunged into an icy abyss.

They didn't know.

Didn't know the anesthesia had long lost its hold on me.

Didn't know I had heard every single word.

Didn't know I had recorded it all.

So this was their design all along.

Five years they had spent feeding me lies, laundering a physician back across the border only to deceive me. No wonder the so-called rehabilitation was buried on the twelfth floor of a ward no one wandered into. All of it a carefully built illusion, mortar over rot.

A sharp pain lanced through my chest and silent tears slipped from the corners of my eyes. Beneath the sheet, I pressed my thumb hard against the inside of my wrist, into the old spot where the line had always sat.

After the "treatment," my parents wheeled me home in good cheer, warmth laced into every word and gesture, as though they hadn't just handed down a sentence of lifelong suffering.

Two hours ago, Lorenzo had been at that clinic, murmuring soft things to Vittoria.

Now he stood at the door in an apron, smiling like the devoted husband he pretended to be.

"Cara, the rehabilitation must have worn you out. I made you some bone broth. It'll bring your strength back faster."

His gaze brimmed with tenderness, his voice rich with concern, exactly like the man who once swore before the Family to love me, to keep me, to stand at my side to the last.

If I hadn't seen him with Vittoria at the clinic, if I hadn't heard the truth pass between them, I might have believed him.

Might have let that warmth seep into my frozen heart.

But now, all I saw was the lie.

His love had never been mine.

It had always belonged to the very woman who shattered my legs.

He was willing to sacrifice our blood-union, to counterfeit his love for me, all just to sign a Family pardon that would wipe clean the debt she owed under vendetta.

He even had a son with her.

At dinner, in the long dining hall of the Falcone estate, my mother suddenly teared up, her gaze lingering on the dishes laid before her. She wiped at her eyes, her expression heavy with sorrow.

Lorenzo immediately set down his knife and fork, his face filled with concern as he asked what was wrong.

My father let out a long sigh, gently patting her back. Beneath the tablecloth I could hear the soft clink of the worn silver medallion he always kept turning between his fingers.

"She must be thinking of Vittoria's favorite dishes, and starting to miss her."

"That child, she made a mistake, but we raised her for over ten years under this roof. She didn't deserve to die."

A bitter taste filled my mouth.

She didn't deserve to die?

Then what about me?

Did I deserve to be handed over in her place? Was I just supposed to accept it?

"Donna," Lorenzo said softly, "it's been five years already. Vittoria was only twenty back then. She might have acted impulsively and made a mistake." His palm moved once down the front of his jacket, smoothing the fabric flat.

"I grew up alongside her. Her nature was a little extreme. She thought you were trying to take everything from her, the whole territory, the whole name."

"Five days from now is her death anniversary. I know you don't want to go, so I'll go with your mother and father to visit her grave, all right?"

Lorenzo's gaze wavered, as if afraid I would suddenly lose my temper at the head of the Don's own table.

"Hmm. You should go. After all, she lived in this house longer than I have. It's only natural that you still have feelings for her."

Lorenzo let out a quiet breath of relief, his voice turning even gentler.

"I knew you were kind-hearted. You've never been the type to hold a grudge against your late sister."

My mother dabbed at her eyes, sniffling softly. Her fingers rose to the crucifix at her throat and pressed there, quick and light.

"My dear daughter, a child of our own blood will always be the most understanding…"

I lowered my head, my tears slipping silently into my bowl.

So. They did know I was their real daughter, the true blood of the Falcone line.

A sharp pain twisted in my stomach. The moment I felt it tighten, I pressed my thumb hard against the inside of my wrist, into the old spot where the IV line used to sit, then pushed back my chair, murmured that I wasn't feeling well, and retreated to my room.

A while later, Lorenzo came in, carrying my stomach medicine. His eyes were full of concern, his voice unbearably soft.

Seeing that I had no intention of speaking, he said nothing. Instead he silently fetched warm water and, with practiced care, wiped my face himself.

For ten years after I was brought into the Family, I was the only one he seemed to see.

Even when Vittoria confessed her feelings for him, she had been met with nothing but his cold rejection.

Now, I finally understood.

He never loved me. He only wanted the title that came with me, made successor to the Falcone rackets and territory.

His love and his blood-union had always been two separate things.

Late at night, after Lorenzo drifted into sleep, I reached for the phone on his bedside table.

The password was my birthday.

His pinned contact was me, followed by my parents.

I scrolled through his messages. There was nothing unusual, until I switched accounts.

That was when I found the second one.

Only one name appeared in its chat list. Vittoria.

[Lorenzo, it's been five years. How much longer do I have to keep hiding?]

[She has no proof I hit her, and she's a cripple now. She's no threat at all.]

[Our son keeps crying for his daddy. Can you really bear this?]

Lorenzo's replies were full of reassurance.

[Your parents and I are already discussing a plan. Just be patient.]

So. They had already brought Vittoria back. Buried her under a false name. Built her an entire life.

Only a few days ago.

They had even set her up with a front real-estate racket, registered clean under that fabricated name, 'Celeste Marino.'

In five days, the grand opening would take place.

My hands trembled as I opened Lorenzo's social feed.

I scrolled. My heart turned ice-cold.

For five years, Vittoria had been living in luxury overseas, bankrolled by my family, laundered abroad where no vendetta could reach her.

She dressed in designer labels funded through the Family's laundered money. The villa she lived in? One of the Syndicate's overseas properties.

And Lorenzo? He had been at her side the whole time, using "business trips" as his cover to fly out to her.

Even my own parents stood in the photographs, smiling as if they belonged there.

In that moment, I understood.

They were the real family.

Swallowing back the stinging tears, I took screenshots of every piece of it, then switched back to his main account.